


A Nullo Amato

by sedfierisentio



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Light Bondage, M/M, a bit of angst, getting railed while reading out please master by allen ginsberg, implied BDSM, now onto the results of four years of catechism and sunday school, right let's see if i remember what's in this fic [cracks knuckles], something that could be read as a panic attack but it isn't anything too heavy, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sedfierisentio/pseuds/sedfierisentio
Summary: Inspired by Harry carrying books around outside LAX, a canon-compliant, Canon AU fic set between 2014 and 2015; mostly, timestamps roped together by a common theme—literature.Harry takes the habit of reading when flying solo becomes a frequent occurrence, and leaves the most meaningful words there where Louis can find them.Or, as someone more eloquently put it, the fic in which Harry gets railed while reading out Please Master by Allen Ginsberg.(Originally posted in 2015)
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 174





	A Nullo Amato

**Author's Note:**

> Back on this platform due to popular demand (three people).

Harry was never what one would call a reader, before he became famous. All he used to do was read for school, just the compulsory reading for his English class, and not even with much interested either, to be completely honest; however, things had changed a lot through the years. At first, when he was turned into Harry from One Direction and he'd started spending most of his time travelling around, he would kill the time Louis was asleep by reading a bit—but only when Louis was asleep, see, because if there is something Louis couldn't and still can't stand, it's being ignored; he needs to have someone's attention, really, and more often than not it's Harry's attention he craves rather than just someone's. (Louis is loud, loud, loud, but Harry wouldn't have it any other way.) So he used to close the book, often just an easy read to let the hours flow, not really bothered, and he would focus on Louis.

And Louis would focus on him in return. He could be playing FIFA with Niall while Harry checked Twitter, Louis and Niall sat next to each other at one end of the sofa, Harry lying on the other end, his feet on Louis's crossed legs; Harry would furrow his eyebrows, maybe reading something rude directed at him, and Louis would brush his pinkie finger on his naked ankle; when Harry looked up from his phone screen to look at Louis, he would catch him glance at him for a second, then look back at the TV before anyone else noticed, a moment of distraction that made Niall score. Then, Louis would complain, loudly, he would say, “I can't believe I didn't see that,” and Niall would scrunch up his nose and reply, “Not my fault you're easily distracted, mate,” — but It wasn't true, it was _never_ true, Louis was never distracted; he was just focused on something else—someone else—Harry. It was always Harry. It's _still_ Harry.

(“You are the _most_ selfless person I know,” Harry told Louis once. “I'm not selfless,” Louis laughed. He was just in love with him, and Louis had this reckless, masochistic habit of loving people more than he cared about himself.)

Then Harry from One Direction turned into Harry Styles, the brand, and he started flying solo. Now he was Harry Styles, see, and apparently he was _oh_ _so_ _much_ _more_ than his band mates, and, most importantly, he was was not with Louis. So now he read entire books, sometimes even two books at time during the flight from London to L.A. and from L.A. back to Europe, or wherever he needed to be seen and papped, and he would read Bukowski, and Joyce, and Palahniuk, and Chaucer, and even Nicholas Sparks, even John Green, for god's sake, all kinds of authors, really, and all kinds of books, all kinds of stories – and sometimes they were books that meant something, that had a purpose, something to teach, sometimes they were books meant nothing, that left nothing behind but two hours killed with a story that wasn't his, but every time, there was one thing every book he read always meant to him, and that was: _Louis_ _is_ _not_ _here_ _with_ _me._

There had been a time when he could be a little annoyed at Louis because he wouldn't let him finish a page. Now he can read up to a book per flight, and he wishes Louis could be there to lean forward, caress his ear with his lips, and whisper, “I'm sure this is a really interesting read, but it won't suck you off, will it?” like he used to do. Despite what people say about them, it's not like they were, or are, co-dependent, or unable to spend time apart from one another, because Harry would spend time with Lou, with his family, with Nick, with Jeff, and he enjoyed it; it hurt that, often, it wasn't his choice. It hurts that it still isn't.

So, one day, Harry began to quote the books he read to Louis. It wasn't even a thing in the beginning, until it eventually _was_. One morning, Harry scribbled a quote on a piece of paper, and he left it on Louis's nightstand, next to his glasses and his phone, before he rushed out. The quote was from Richard Siken's Scheherazade, and it read, _Tell_ _me_ _how_ _all_ _this,_ _and_ _love_ _too,_ _will_ _ruin_ _us._ _Tell_ _me_ _we’ll_ _never_ _get_ _used_ _to_ _it_. And that's how it began; after that, they had been quotes left in Louis’s notes on his iPhone, inside the back pockets of his jeans, in his suitcases; there where, Harry knew, he would find them.

Los Angeles, sometime in 2014.

It's an early morning in L.A., Harry is lying in a bed that is too cold, too big, and too empty, and he hasn't slept in more than 24 hours. “So,” Louis says through the phone, “what are you up to, rock star?”

He's stopped asking if Harry's slept at all when he rings him up at 5.30 in the morning in L.A., exactly like, one year ago, he stopped asking him how drunk he was when he forgot about time zones and rang him up when it was 5.30 in the morning in London. (He has never complained, though. It still happens from time to time, and he just picks up, his sleepy, raspy voice a soothing reassurance, and he just says, “Hey, Haz,” and listens to Harry's drunk rambling until he falls asleep. The following day, when Harry apologizes for waking him up at such ungodly hours, Louis laughs it off and says, “No worries, love. I don't care that you wake me up,” and Harry knows that it means: I care about you, I care that I still am the person you wake up when you can't sleep, and I love you.)

Harry is no rock star. Harry is wearing the Hello Kitty boxers Louis gave him as a prank for Valentine's Day because he was born a sappy fucker and he will die a sappy fucker, sue him, he has flip flops on his feet and a pink hair tie to keep his hair in a bun, and he dreads the moment he will have to step outside and wear boots, because god only knows he wants to stay in bed and sleep his jet lag off. If only he could sleep at all.

“There is this Italian old man keeping me company in bed.” Harry hums, casually. “He's very good with words, if you ask me.” When Louis doesn't answer right away, Harry grins and adds: “He's so old he died in 1985. Also, why am I wearing flip flops in bed?”

“Flip flops in bed. Sexy,” Louis chuckles. “We should try them on with those black lace panties.”

“Don't mention lace panties to me when you are miles away, ” Harry groans, kicking the flip flops off and pressing his face into the pillow. The sun is starting to shine through the curtains and his head hurts. “That's just not—fair, Lou.”

“We could always skype  tonight,”  Louis says  suggestively.  “I  mean. In  a  few  hours, when  it's  night  time  here and about 4  in  the afternoon  in  L.A.”

Harry could cry, honest. “I left those fucking panties home.”

Louis hums, sounds like he's licking his lips. “I know, silly.” When Harry doesn't say anything, puzzled, he adds: “Well, I was looking through your stuff because I—uhm—I wanted to wear something yours.” (Harry will die a sappy fucker, but at least he will have some damn good company.) “I meant that _I_ could wear them.”

Well. Alright, then.

Before Harry has the chance to get hard, since he can picture Louis in those lacy panties all too clearly for the wellbeing of this jet-lagged self, Louis asks: “So, you said that this Italian dude is very good with words. Care to elaborate?”

“Well, he doesn't exactly get me hard like you just did, so, in a way, you are better with words, but listen here,” Harry sits up straighter, angling the phone between his jaw and his shoulder, and he turns the pages back until he finds the paragraph he's looking for. “They knew each other. He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.”

Louis stays silent for a few seconds. “I'm really not better than him with words,” he mutters then. “That's—those are beautiful words, Haz.”

Harry knows Louis is thinking about 2010, and the X Factor, and about the bungalow where they went together with the other lads, and about that tent in Leeds, one year later where Louis pressed his mouth against Harry's bare shoulder and said, “I haven't cared anyone as much as I care about you,” and Harry felt like a whole new person, felt like he'd been broken into a million different parts and built again, himself as he’d been before, but as new whole, the same pieces reassembled in a new way. He knows, because that's what he is thinking about, and they may not be co- dependent, they may not be together either, but they know each other like the back of their hands and it's kind of scary and breathtaking the way their minds work alike, and Harry says, “I love you,” and that's all that matters.

They don't skype. At 4 in the afternoon Harry's phone rings for a few times, but Harry is finally sleeping, mouth hanging slightly open, bun undone, curtains shut, and it's one, two three, five, six drills before Louis texts him, _Haz,_ _u_ _there?_ and then, after seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, _I_ _love_ _you._ _Sleep_ _well , baby cakes_ , and it's not disappointment as much as it is a saddening sense of deja-vu and inevitability. It doesn't last for long, but it's lingering there, a buzz burning under Louis's skin, miles away, and needless to say, Harry doesn't sleep well either.

Los Angeles, July 2014.

It's L.A. again, months later. Harry can hear the screams and shouts and the stomping of the crowd, and he thinks, I can do this. _Inhale,_ _exhale_. He knew the paparazzi would be waiting. The circus doesn't stop for anyone, the show isn't over until it's over, and it doesn't matter that he's felt like a tired trapezist in precarious equilibrium, unable to drag his feet one in front of the other until the other end of the rope, but shifting his weight back and forth, back and forth, balancing his stance to avoid the fall, for what it feels like a hundred years. The show is on. He touches the blue bandana around his neck softly, running the pad of his thumb against the fabric; before he steps out, the flashes blinding him, he pulls out an old, crumpled, ruined copy of Women, and the grip on the books tightens as he walks through the crowd, paps bumping into him, fans shoving their phones in his face. Inhale, exhale.

(Sometimes, the books he reads mean nothing; sometimes, they are a precise, calculated statement.)

The show isn't off until he's home. He kicks off his boots, leaving them in the middle of the hallway. He can't be bothered to put them aside, really. There's a faint scent of coffee in the air, the curtains are wide open, illuminating the living room, and Harry wants nothing more than shut them down and sleep for three days straight.

It's just a couple of seconds before two arms circle him and Louis engulfs him in a tight hug, hands smoothing over his back in soothing caresses. Harry lets his head fall on Louis's left shoulder as he hugs him back, breathing his smell in, nuzzling his nose into the fine hair on his neck. He smells like cigarette, like cinnamon, like their fabric softener. He smells like home.

“Babe,” Louis says, kissing Harry's neck softly. “I made coffee and tea. I also bought almond milk, since any other milk has been bugging your stomach lately, so I can make you a latte, if you'd like?”

Harry doesn't know what he wants, exactly, his head is pounding and it hurts and he can’t _think_. He whispers, “I don't know. 'M tired.”

“Tired” doesn't begin cover it. He's angry, sad, anxious, nostalgic, pissed. Harry wants to shout and yell and cry and yell again and then cry some more. He wants to close his eyes, but he's afraid that, if he lets himself doze off, he's going to see the tombstone of his grandmother and the hurried goodbyes, and all the days he missed while on the road; he wants to throw a tantrum because his nan just died and he had twelve hours to mourn before he had to go back to the U.S.A., because he can't have anything, anything like other people can – he can't mourn, he can't rest, he can't go home without having to take a longer way to avoid stalkers following him around.

And he is tired, yes, but ‘tired’ is just the tip of the iceberg, and he is exhausted not the way other people are, when they come home and they feel like they could fall asleep on their dinner: he's tired as in he wishes he could strip off his skin and his name and his body like he can strip off his clothes; he wants to stop _being_ for a while, but he can't — because this is all a fucking show and is not over, is never over, and he can't shake off the tension in his shoulders, and the trembling of his hands, and the feeling that he's walking at the verge of a canyon.

He's shaking, and Louis cups his face with his hands, thumbs tracing his jawline; he doesn't ask him how he's feeling, nor he asks him to elaborate or explain himself. He rarely does, in moments like this, and that's not because he doesn't care (it's such an absurd thought, that Louis could ever not care), or because he doesn't know how to phrase the question, how to approach him; it's because he knows all too well how Harry is feeling, as Louis has been in Harry's mouth and in Harry's body and he is in his soul and in his life, but, more than anything else, he is in his mind and in his heart and what Harry feels, Louis feels as well. He knows that the moment he asks Harry how he's feeling, Harry will crumble under his hands, and it's not the time to crumble yet.

So Louis kisses him on the side of the mouth, lingering there for a second, and it means I'm sorry. He caresses his face, and it means I understand. He says, “What about you take a bath and I wash your hair? I can get the water running while you take off your clothes. You can leave them wherever you want. I will pick them up later,” and it's funny because Harry is usually the one cleaning after Louis, and it means, _I'm_ _here_ _and_ _it's_ _going_ _to_ _be_ _okay._

He nods silently, not remembering how to form words, how to bring his vocal chords to work. He feels out of his skin. He's glad, immensely glad, eternally glad; he's glad that Louis helps him strip down, that Louis runs his bath, and that he massages his scalp as he keeps rambling about anything and anyone, really, about a new IKEA wardrobe they could buy and about the weather forecasts, anything as long as he can keep Harry's mind busy and crowded with a billion easy thoughts anchoring him to reality; it's only as he helps him dry himself off that the blah blah blah relents, that Louis lets Harry get used to the silence, humming softly, tying Harry's hair into a perfect braid, “Perks of dating a young Mick Jagger,” he jokes, and it's only when they're both in bed, naked and safe, that Harry falls apart and starts crying. He's immensely glad that Louis is here to pick up the pieces.

They are quiet for a while. They're spooning, like they always do, Louis hugging Harry from behind, keeping his hand spread open on Harry's tummy, running up and down and tracing the lines of his butterfly tattoo, when Harry croaks out, “Louis?”

“Yeah, babe?”

There is another brief moment of silence before Harry replies, “Nadine. Her name's Nadine.”

Louis doesn't really need Harry to elaborate, and he doesn't say anything either; he tries to picture her, his stomach turning unpleasantly, and he suddenly feels sick, and it's so masochistic, so fucking masochistic and it'd be hilarious if he didn't feel nauseous. Nadine. Is she tall? Must be, of course she is. Perhaps she is a brunette, this time around, but that seems unlikely — she’s probably blonde, tall, and lean, with milky skin and long, straight hair, and a promising modelling career.

Nadine. It sounds so French. Just like Louis.

Unlike Louis, though, she is a girl. “Is she one of Jeff’s clients?”

Harry nods. “She is an aspiring Victoria’s Secret model. He says — he says that it’s going to be pretty harmless, that we won’t even have to look intimate. Jeff and Glenne are going to tag along with us and we, like. We’ll just eat some frozen yogurt and stuff. Most of the time.”

It’s not going to be harmless; it never is. Louis can already feel the sharp sting in his chest, and he chastises himself — stupid, _stupid_ Louis who cares too much and should have learnt how to build thicker walls, should have learnt to feel things as if through a layer of glass, in a distance, as if these feelings weren’t his but someone else’s.

“Lou?” Harry tries, turning his head to glance at him. “Are you—” his voice lowers quietly, and he licks his lips as if they were dry, perhaps taking time; then, his eyes scanning Louis’s face, he continues, “what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking,” Louis says slowly, “Haz, you don’t even like froyo that much.”

It's a white lie slipping from his lips between he can stop it; he knows that he should say ( _I'm_ _thinking_ _that_ _I'm_ _not okay,_ _I'm_ _thinking_ _that I hate her already,_ _I'm_ _thinking_ _that I_ _really_ _need_ _to_ _puke_ ), that he should be honest about what he's feeling, since it's not like Harry doesn't understand that he's lying, anyway—but he just can't. Perhaps, if he keeps joking about things, they won't hurt as much anymore. His stomach keeps turning, but, as it happens with a few other aspects of his life, there's little he can do about it. He mindlessly touches his chest. It is what it is. Before he falls asleep, Harry's heavy breathing lulling him, it keeps echoing in his mind; _Tell_ _me_ _how_ _all_ _this,_ _and_ _love_ _too,_ _will ruin_ _us. Tell_ _me_ _we’ll never get used_ _to_ _it._

(Later that night, Louis finds a note saved in his iPhone he doesn’t remember saving. It says,

_Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell._ )

They don't get used to it, not really. Harry keeps reading; books written by Zafon, Nabokov, and Shakespeare piles up on his bedside tables, in the hallway, left abandoned on the table in their house in L.A. after a particularly long flight, and Louis often jokes, “For someone as hipster as you, you're awfully mainstream with your reading,” before he drops Harry’s book on the floor, strips Harry of all his clothes and has him fuck him over the kitchen table. There is only one silent rule, and it’s: no reading when they are together.

The books still pile up.

November 2014.

By the time October comes around, bringing a new album and a new promo time with it, Harry still reads off Louis's absence in his public life, and there's a pile of books on their nightstands back in London and a discarded book on their laundry machine and one on their table in the kitchen and one next to their microwave.

It's the end of the month, Louis is not physically here with him now either, as he feels a light layer of sweat pool up on his forehead. A few years ago, he would have imagined Louis sitting next to him instead of Liam: their fingers intertwined, perhaps, their knees touching, bumping against each other, softly enough to give them goosebumps underneath their clothes without anyone noticing. Secret touches like they used to do. However, it is what it is, and Louis is there, just hidden away, still off camera and not on it.

He's finished his last book yesterday night, while Louis was in the shower, a few lines echoing in his mind. _There_ _is_ _one only you, and you can do whatever you_ _like_ _as long as you look_ _after_ _yourself_ _and don't hurt anyone_ _else._

It's a nice script, the dialogue is neat, the replies are quick and effective: the interviewer asks about the favourite traits they look for in a lady, and Liam is a consumed actor as he replies, “Female— it's a good trait,” and looks at Harry. His turn now.

_Who do you want to be?_

He is ecstatic, it's what he is, he can feel his skin buzzing and his heart pumping loud in his ears, a rush of adrenaline running through his body as he shrugs, half-smiling, almost erupting in a broken laugh—

_There's only one rule: always be true to yourself._

The twist in his stomach loosing up despite knowing that his next line will make the news in a couple of days, he says, “Not that important,” and Liam makes an amused sound, then glances off camera, where Louis and their PR are standing. They're both giving them the okay sign. And it's done.

Except, it’s not done at all. The next days pass by in a frenzy, stretching, melting into one another; the press quickly picks up on it, on _Harry_ _Styles_ _the_ _womanizer_ , of all people, saying that gender is not important to him, and it’s a hurricane of calls and PR statements and meetings and emails sent to the most prominent publications, of _Harry_ _Styles_ _won’t_ _make_ _any_ _further_ _statements_ _about_ _his_ _sexuality_ and handshakes, of _Harry,_ _you’re_ _half_ _out,_ _mate,_ _congratulations._

It’s been Louis’s idea, to call the paparazzi. It’d been a moment of reckless impulsivity, and he’d been on the phone with Harry until about thirty seconds before he’d stepped out of the car with a rainbow apple on his white t-shirt. _It_ _cannot_ _be_ _that_ _bad_ , he’d said, tugging at the sleeves of his jeans jacket, _it’s_ _not_ _like I’m_ _going out_ _with_ _a “I_ _like_ _cock”_ _t-shirt._

He could as well have. Harry can hear it, the metallic sound of the lens of a camera zooming in under the insistent questions, under Ben asking, Is there any rumour you want to deny? Is there any rumour you want to deny?, and it’s with the same, terrible clarity that he feels sweat pooling up on his forehead, under the blinding, hot lights of the studio. It’s hot. It’s too hot. He can’t breathe.

To an outsider, Louis could look like a cornered animal, a frightened stag stuck between a tree and the black hole at the end of a gun barrel. The camera zooms in again, like a rifle pointing at Louis’s head. He wonders, briefly, how many people are watching. But Louis, brave, courageous, impulsive, reckless Louis has never been a cornered prey, and he won’t be one today. Louis is a lion, and in the sharp, sarcastic voice he never uses when they are alone, he says, “Let me think

— _no_.” Louis a lion and he is roaring and mauling as many throats as possible before anyone gets to his.

(“We need you to deny,” their PR had said matter-of-factly.

Louis was standing beside the sofa, the cameras set ready for their FOUR Hangout, and his eyebrows had shot into his hairline, Harry’s hand tightening its grip on his left wrist— on Louis’s rope. “Excuse me?”

His reply had been met by a cold stare, a shuffling of papers. “Ben will ask if there are rumours you want to deny, and you will deny any involvement with Tim Cook, or the LGBT community. That was just a vintage t-shirt and you were not making a statement. It’s as simple as that.”

“Or what?”

“Or we take care of it.”

“Good luck with that,” Louis had snapped harshly. “Five years and you’ve managed to convince pretty much no one. Make sure you come up with something creative. Deny what, even — those rumours that I am gay?” It’s a bitter excuse for a laugh, the one that escapes his lips, because this is fucking ridiculous, because — “Guess what? I am, in fact, gay.”)

They find out when Harry’s phone buzzes, the vibrations causing it to move an inch further towards the edge of the nightstand. He’d even forgotten he had Louis’s twitter notifications on. But Louis reaches out for it, breaking the kiss — licking Harry’s bottom lip one last time, his legs at either side of Harry’s body, before he takes the phone and glances at the notification at the top of the screen.

Louis has always been a wild, unmanageable animal, and there is one thing to do to with dogs that bite — put them down.

Half an hour later, Louis’s dinner has been flushed down the toilet, just bile and saliva. He sits down at the kitchen table, pressing his closed fists onto his eyelids. Harry sits down next to him in silence, both of their phones in front of them. Harry contemplates leaving the room. He should leave the house, maybe, let Louis steam it off on his own. Walk around until this guilt he’s feeling like blows on his stomach quiets down, stops burning him alive from the inside out.

“I’m reading Dante’s Inferno,” he enunciates, slowly, calibrating the words like a boxer would calibrate his blows: not too low, not too strong. Louis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look like he’s listening, so he takes a deep, shaky breath and he keeps going: “At the beginning of the Divine Comedy, Dante gets lost in this forest—and, like, it’s a metaphor, obviously, but that’s not important—and what happens is that he’s told that, to get through this dark forest, he needs to go through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. . .”

“Harry,” Louis says, in a small voice that has Harry’s chest hurt, “not now.”

“But listen, this—it’s important, let me finish,” he tries again, nonetheless, “In the second circle of Hell, Dante—”

Louis doesn’t even shout, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all. “Harry, I don’t fucking _care_ ,” he greets through his teeth, slowly, and his anger is not an explosion, a single deafening blow; his anger and frustration are a glass slowly cracking, thin lines deturping its surface, and Harry jolts, thinks, irrationally, _they_ _killed_ _the lion_. “I don’t fucking care, Harry, you know?, I don’t fucking care about any of your fucking books, I don’t care about Hell or Purgatory or Paradise, I don’t care about fucking Dostoevskij or—”

“That’s not—that’s not what I meant, if you just _listened_ for a second—”

“Tell me something, Harry,” Louis interrupts him, his blue, clear, bloodshot eyes piercing a hole into his chest, “Tell me Dante Alighieri doesn’t place homosexuals to burn in Hell. Tell me,” he says again, a sharp edge to his voice, a muffled sniffle quickly buried into the sleeves of his old, ratty t-shirt that shows the lines of his collarbones, “Tell me that homosexuals aren’t burning in hell, and I’ll listen. Or do me a favour, and fuck off.”

When Harry doesn’t say anything, it’s Louis who leaves the room. It’s only two days later that, for the first time, Harry finds a piece of paper inside of the back pocket of his black jeans: he recognises as a page of one of his poetry books. It says, “ _Like_ _a_ _snake,_ _my_ _heart_ _has_ _shed_ _its_ _skin_ _/ I_ _hold_ _it_ _here_ _in_ _my_ _hand_ _/_ _full_ _of_ _honey_ _and_ _wounds_ ,” and that night Louis sneaks into their bed for the first time in two days, reaches around him, buries his nose into Harry’s hair, and they both say, _I’m_ _sorry_. The apologies don’t soothe the guilt he’s feeling, like rats nibbling his insides, tens of tiny, sharp teeth breaking into his organs, claws carving lines into his ribcage; the last things in his mind before he falls asleep are his PR giving him the okay and Louis closed-off stance as Ben shot his questions like bullets.

November 2014.

They’re going to be late. They’re going to be so spectacularly late, Louis would actually laugh if he could exhale something that isn’t shaky breaths and choked off moans.

As for now, Austria to him is just the rushed car drive from the airport to the TV studios, a weather way colder than London’s, and the tight heat of Harry’s mouth around his cock. Harry smoothes his hands on Louis’s meaty thighs, gripping tight when he takes another inch of his cock into his mouth. It nudges against his throat, but he doesn’t even gag, is the thing — he takes it so well, God, stays right there, breathing heavily through his nose. He drags his mouth on Louis’ shaft until his lips are wrapped around the head of Louis’s cock, one fist pumping the rest of his length lazily, his free hand tucked inside his underwear, working over his cock.

_When the apocalypse does come,_

Harry hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, moaning, looking up at Louis, and he nearly comes here and there. That’s why he tugs at Harry’s hair - he gets the hint, letting Louis’s cock slip out of his mouth with a pornographic pop. His lips are rosy and shiny and plump, his cheeks flushed.

“Come up ‘ere,” Louis commands, and Harry is happy to oblige, giving a rest to his knees, before Louis kisses him hard, tugging at his lower lip. “How much time do you think we have?”

“‘M afraid,” Harry breaks their kiss long enough to answer, breathing over Louis’ lips, “not enough. Plus, I don’t think we have—oh, _God_ ,” he lets out, Louis grabbing both of their cocks in his hands and pumping, “lube—we don’t have lube.”

_I will rebuild our city with my tongue._

“Honestly, Haz,” Louis pants, frustrated. “You lure me inside a bathroom thirty minutes before a TV appearance—”

“I haven’t  _lured_ you anywhere,” Harry says, but Louis can  see his  dimples  appear as he  grins  wickedly,  “My  PR  team  denies every  accusation—”

“So you’re telling me that the note you left in my documents bag was totally coincidental.” Harry places his hand above Louis’, an added pressure as they both work over their cocks, precome making the slide easier, and it takes him a total of three and a half seconds before his brain connections get back to work. “That leaving an erotic poem where I would read it wasn’t an implicit invitation to fuck before the show began.”

Harry presses his thumb against his slit. “My PR declines to comment.”

“I can’t believe we’re having a quickie in the bathroom before a show,” Louis groans, leaning his head backwards against the wall, “This is the X Factor all over again. Fuck,” he curses, “turn over. I’m gonna fuck your thighs. Going full X Factor.”

Harry obliges immediately, switching positions with Louis as fast as he can. He almost harms himself in the process, the skinny jeans around his thighs making it difficult for him to move around forcing him to shuffle over awkwardly, but, if not, it seems to turn him on even more. The kinky bastard. He moans obscenely when Louis places one hand on his tummy and one on his lower back, pressing just enough so that he bends over, cheek against the white, cold wall.

Louis pumps his fist up and down once, twice, then presses Harry’s legs together. His hands over the milky expense of the pale skin of his hips, he stills for a moment, and Harry sounds impatient when he says, “Louis, what are you waiting f—”

_I will suck this world’s ashes from your fingers._

Louis bends over, reaching over around Harry’s legs with his arms, and tugs Harry’s jeans up, almost to his balls. Harry looks confused, and he opens his mouth, likely to question whatever it is that Louis is doing, before Louis grabs his loosened belt and _pulls_. Harry’s legs slam together, thighs rubbing against each other, and Harry moans brokenly when Louis tightens the belt and secures it, restraining him.

Then he lines up under Harry’s balls and pushes in, hands gripping Harry’s hips. Harry has his fist tight on his cock, his forehead against the wall of the bathroom, and his eyes clenched shut. Normally, Louis would start slow, taking his time, enjoying the friction of Harry’s thick thighs — but the pressure isn’t quite enough, isn’t like the feeling of Harry’s tight asshole spasming around him, and he needs to chase his orgasm, to make it as quick as possible before someone goes looking for them.

“We’re fucking late,” he complains, his hips snapping forward hard enough that Harry has to place his free hand - the one that isn’t steadily jerking himself off - flat against the wall not to hurt his himself.

Despite everything, despite the fact that he is bent almost ninety degrees forward and his thighs are currently tied together by his belt and being fucked in a toilet in the backstage of an Austrian TV show where they are supposed to perform in, probably, approximately five minutes, Harry lets out a shaky laugh that quickly turns into an hysterical round of giggles.

_I will refuse to let the fires of this hell be the only thing that makes us sweat._

Louis stills for a moment, blinking. “What. . . what—”

“We’re fucking late,” Harry giggles. “We are _fucking_ late, got it, Lou? We’re going to be late because we’re—”

His sentence his cut off by Louis snapping his forward forcefully. He thinks, _Oh_ _my_ _God,_ _I’m in_ _love_ _with_ _an_ _idiot_ , and he is contemplating whether to verbalise his thoughts or let Harry know that he is desperately in love with him even though he is an idiot after they have cleaned up, he really is. Before the door of the toilet slams open and a poor TV assistant, _Wetten_ _Dass_ written on his name tag right above his job position, walks in on them.

Harry comes with one last broken moan, legs trembling and come spilling over his fist. The poor guy, glasses and thin blonde hair, squeaks high on his throat and rushes out of there murmuring apologies.

_When the apocalypse comes,_

Apparently, going full X Factor involves being so horny to forget to lock the damn toilet door.

_so will we._

May 2015.

Louis texts Harry when he enters a souvenirs shop, his fringe sticking to his sticky forehead, Barcelona stupidly hot for this time of the year. Louis scans briefly the rest of items in the shop before he spots a range of magnets on a black board next to the cashier. He traces the lines of one of them — the thick outlines of the Sagrada Familia, the pastel blue sky in the background, the mess that is the rest of the city. He glances at a few scarfs hanging from a hook, Barcelona written in bold, bright yellow capital letters on a black background.

He’d hoped he could find someone that screamed ‘Harry’, but there is nothing that catches his attention. A part of him wishes he had more time to look around for nice shops, for something particular and bizarre that isn’t the typical souvenir, but Barcelona is just a brief stop before he goes home, and he knows his time here is running out. Not like he’s complaining. He unlocks his phone, opens iMessage and types, _What_ _do_ _you_ _want_ _me_ _to_ _bring_ _back_ _from_ _Barcelona?_

It’s not long before his phone buzzes and he reads Harry’s reply. _You._

When he opens his wallet to pay for a coin bracelet, he finds a note tucked in with his bank card. It says, _I_ _went_ _down,_ _giving_ _you_ _my_ _arm,_ _at_ _least_ _one_ _million_ _stairs,_ _and_ _now_ _that_ _you_ _are_ _no_ _more here_ _it’s_ _the void_ _at every_ _step._

He goes home to Harry. In truth, it’s always Harry he comes home to; it’s Harry at four in the morning, when Louis tiptoes quietly into the room, barefoot, tucks himself under the covers after a night out, hugs him from behind, chest against back, one arm looped loosely around the younger man’s body, their legs intertwined, and Harry shifting a bit, unconsciously moving closer while Louis bathes in his warmth, in the rhythmic cadence of his breaths; it’s Harry at seven on a winter morning, when it’s still too early for the the light to illuminate the room through the shutters, when Louis blinks lazily and tightens his hold on Harry, and the world is waking up slowly, but not quite, and they are lost in a universe where there is no rush, no hurry, no compelling duties, no flights to catch and no interviews, where they are just two bodies, together, with no names and no weights on their shoulders; it’s Harry at nine on a day off, rolling over to look at Louis, pepper his face with kisses and grin against Louis’s neck when Louis does the same, quick kisses on his shoulders, jaw, chest, before the kisses turn into a tickle fight, Harry laughing hysterically as Louis runs his fingers on his love handles — and the tickle fight turns into Louis placing soft, lazy kisses

up and down Harry’s fern tattoos from under the covers, Harry leaning his head backwards on the pillow, exhaling quietly, eyes looking up at the ceiling, and Louis goes down, down, _down_ ; it’s Harry at midday, humming _It's_ _strange_ _what_ _desire_ _will_ _make_ _foolish_ _people_ _do_ , hair tied in a bun that leaves the back of his neck bare for Louis to kiss, while he’s mixing the ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes that smell like butter and home and like the future they’ll have together; it’s Harry at five in the afternoon, watching a sci-fi movie in just his black boxers on his golden laptop, Louis pinching his thigh as he says, “I’m goin’ to fix us a cuppa,” — and when Louis is back it’s Harry looking devastatingly young and beautiful in the house they own together, legs crossed underneath him, watching the laptop screen intently as Jared Leto says in a crinkly, raspy voice, fake wrinkles adorning his face, like paint lines on a powdery white canva, _Every_ _path_ _is_ _the right_ _path,_ _everything could've_ _been anything_ _else,_ _and_ _it_ _would have_ _just_ _as much meaning_ ; it’s Harry at eight in the evening, stepping out of the shower with only a cloth around his hip, waterdrops falling down his chest, tracing glistening lines over his tattoos, till they disappear under the warm fabric, dark curls wet, almost straight against his skin.

Louis is sitting on the bed, shirtless, fringe soft over his eyes, black jeggings still unbuttoned. He picks up one of the books in the nightstand, opening it where the pink bookmark Daisy gave him last Christmas is. “Is it interesting, at least?”

Harry dries the water off his skin and then drops the cloths in a corner with the rest of their dirty clothes. (He’ll pick them up to do laundry once Louis is off, when their house will be quiet and a tad bit colder; Louis insists the body warmth a single human can’t do that much of a difference, but Harry begs to differ.) He’s fumbling in his drawer when he replies, “I’ll be honest — I don’t understand half of the things in there. I’d stopped reading it months ago,” he adds, sliding the pair of blue boxers up his legs, “just picked it back up today. I hope I don’t need to read it from the beginning. It is interesting, I guess, I just don’t agree with him, sometimes.”

It’s Harry now, it’s been Harry for four years; it’s Harry even while Louis is dancing inebriated, in a crowded club in L.A. and he checks his phone every ten or so minutes, hot, sweaty bodies moving more or less gracefully around him, psychedelic lights blinding him as he takes another shot, and then another, and then another one, Alberto a steady presence by his side; it’s Harry when he stumbles out of the club, a number of girls giggling, following him, unaware that Louis won’t go home with them. It’s Harry when the late night finally weigh on his shoulders the moment he's out of their door, fumbling with their keys, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Harry seems to be sleeping, but Louis knows better; even slightly intoxicated, he recognises the tension in his shoulders, in the curve of his body under the thin, clean sheets. “Hey, Haz,” he mutters under his breath, leaning over to kiss Harry’s temple just the moment before he rolls over to look at him.

The tension in his shoulders dissipates the moment Louis gets under the covers, placing his head on the pillow, in line with Harry’s face. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explains, voice deeper than usual, soaked in weariness.

Louis mindlessly runs his fingers through Harry’s curls.“Why is that?”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. His eyelids flutter shut, and he mumbles, “I missed you, I guess.” The corners of his lips perk up in a humourless smile, a broken grin. “It’s strange, going from being the person who goes to being the person who stays.”

Louis’s heart clenches painfully (at least, that’s what it feels like, the tight feeling in his chest), and he moves over closer to Harry, leaning his forehead against his. “‘m not going anywhere,” and it’s true and false at the same time; he goes, he goes when he takes planes and tequila shots and rides without Harry, and yet, however, he’s never truly away; not when he texts him goodnight, or when he receives a knock knock joke that is awful more than it is funny, not when his mind and his heart and his soul are always where Harry is: on the other side of the world, on the other side of the country, on the other side of the stage, waiting for Louis to orbit around him, and vice versa, like a planet and its moon.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” Louis closes his eyes, his voice barely audible even in the silence, in the darkness of the room, only the light of the moon peering through the curtains, and it means: _I’m_ _sorry_ _that_ _we_ _have_ _to_ _go through_ _to this. I’m_ _sorry_ _that_ _it_ _can’t be_ _easier._ _I’m_ _sorry_ _that our happiness_ _is still_ _a_ _trade-off._

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry replies. His eyes are extraordinarily pretty in the middle of the night, earnest and clear, and he looks so ethereal that, for a moment, Louis fears he’ll disappear before the morning; he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol, or the memories of that time when Harry actually had to sneak out before the sun rose to fly elsewhere, in a place that wasn’t the bed they shared together. Being the person who stays is always harder than being the person who goes, they both know. “You make me happy.”

Louis licks his lips. “It's living up to being happy that's the difficult part.”

“Are you quoting  my  books at  me,  now?” Harry chuckles,  tucking his  head  into  the  curve of Louis’ neck,  there  where  the skin  is  tender and he can  bite  down  playfully.  “Smart-ass.”

“I would  define  my  ass  a  lot  of  things,”  Louis  grins,  “but  ‘smart’ isn’t  exactly  one of those.”

Harry hums, reaching out around Louis to grab a handful of his bum, squeezing for a second, and Louis laughs, contracting his muscles. “Your ass is everything. Being everything, it’s perfect. Since it’s perfect, it has every perfection, so it’s also, among other things, very smart.”

“Oh my God,” Louis looks down at him, amused. “And I’m supposed to be drunk. No more philosophy books for you.”

They settle into a comfortable silence for a while, after that, listening to each other’s even, deep breaths, Harry tracing his dagger tattoo the only sign that he is still awake; Louis knows, despite the alcohol still flowing in his system, that there are things to be said: that he’s sorry for what they’re going to go through in the next months, that he loves him more than he’s loved anyone, or anything, in his life, that he loves him more than, probably, he’ll ever love himself; that being physically away from him is a rope pulling at his insides till he feels like it’s being turned inside out, burning, red skin, blue veins and think bones uncovered, bare for everyone to nibble at; he’s aware of what Harry probably wants to tell him, too: that he feels guilty, that he would understand, _I_ _would_ _understand_ _it,_ _Lou,_ _if_ _one_ _day_ _you_ _woke_ _up_ _and_ _thought_ _that_ _it’s_ _not_ _worth_ _it_ _anymore_ , that he would understand if, one day, the stress, the duties, the stunts will win over everything else, win over them, and swallow them like a black hole swallows everything that meets his path; what a silly thought, what an impossible prospect: because, despite everything, it’s the way Harry looks at him, with wonder and awe and adoration, and his voice when he says _I_ _love_ _you_ , or _complains_ _there_ _aren’t_ _any_ _more_ _clean_ _socks,_ _Lou_ , or just tells him they’re going to eat fajitas for dinner, that swallows and erases everything bad that there is around them.

“Lou?”

Louis peers down at him. Their lips are much closer than he'd thought. “Yes, love?”

“Remember that I told you what I said about Hawking, today — that sometimes I disagree with him?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, “I do.”

Louis can feel Harry’s warm breath over his lips. “Hawking says that the universe doesn’t allow perfection.”

“And you disagree with that?”

Harry shakes his head, and his lips move against Louis’ as he replies, “No,” and he kisses alongside his jaw, under his chin, finally Louis’ open, awaiting lips again. “I think that it doesn’t matter.”

(It’s just while he’s drifting, falling asleep, that he vaguely remembers another quote of that book,

one Harry had left inside his jeans jacket last March. _If_ _there_ _really_ _is_ _a_ _complete_ _unified_ _theory_ _that governs_ _everything_ , it said, i _t_ _presumably_ _also_ _determines your_ _actions._ _But_ _it_ _does so_ _in_ _a way that_ _is_ _impossible_ _to_ _calculate for_ _an organism that_ _is_ _as complicated as a human being. The reason_ _we_ _say_ _that_ _humans_ _have_ _free_ _will_ _is_ _because_ _we_ _can't_ _predict_ _what_ _they will_ _do_. Zayn had left the band three days earlier.)

July 2015.

Louis had slipped an open book under him, when he was already on his hands and knees, completely naked, bare for Louis to touch him; he’d pressed gently in the middle of his spine, arms bent to support his weight, arse in the air, open and pliant, and he’d told him, “Read, Haz.”

It had recognised it as one of his poetry books - he just hadn’t gotten to the page Louis had left open for him, yet. But he’d started reading anyway, because Harry’s always game for whatever Louis has got in mind, and Louis had immediately gotten his mouth over him. _Please,_ _master,_ _can I touch your_ _cheek._

“Please master,” Harry whispers, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment; his eyes are glassy and unfocused, and when he speaks again it’s more of a shaky breath than anything else. “Can I have your thighs bare to my eyes.”

Louis sucks a love bite into Harry’s inner thigh, the steady suction making Harry’s legs tremble, Louis’s hands kneading at his arsecheeks; he sucks and bites and sucks again, lapping at it to soothe the dull pain. “Please, master,” Harry exhales, breath cut off when Louis leaves a trail of kisses up his right arsecheek and then bites down hard enough to bruise, over and over again. “Please, master, can I take off your clothes below your chair.”

He can feel Louis’s breath over his hole, little blows of air like promises, as he reads aloud, “Please, master, can I kiss your ankles and soul.”

Louis’s mouth moves over to his other arsecheek, leaving a wet trail of saliva and faint bite marks, then down to the inner part of the thigh, and marks him there as well, sucking and biting and sucking again. He pinches that very same spot when he notices that Harry is not reading anymore, just panting loudly, and he mumbles against the boy’s skin, “Read, Haz.”

“Please master,” Harry inhales deeply, “can I touch lips to your muscle hairless thigh—can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach—”

Finally, Louis licks a long, deliciously wet stripe from Harry’s balls, drawn in in anticipation, over his hole where it stops, sucking, and Harry positively _loses_ _it_ , moaning Louis’s name obscenely, dropping his head on the pages for a second. Louis has to grip Harry’s hips to keep him still, and he’s not sure there won’t be marks shaped like his hands and his fingers tomorrow morning.

“Please master,” it’s a litany, it’s a prayer, Harry’s voice is hoarse as if he’s been screaming for hours, “can I wrap my arms around your white ass.”

Louis literally plants his face into Harry’s crack, he’s not even sure he can breathe, he licks and sucks and even bites softly, pointed tongue flicking his rim. Then he finally fucks into Harry, drawing his tongue in and out repeatedly, only stopping to take a breathe and bury his face into Harry’s ass again, repeating the process.

“Please master,” Harry chants, words like a broken sob,” can I lick your groin curled with soft blond fur—please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy—oh, _fuck_ ,” he curses, starting to rock his hips back and forth over Louis’s face when Louis buries his tongue into him again, nose gently nudging the thin hair in his crack, “fuck, fuck, fuck—rosy asshole—”

“Please, master,” Louis suggests, words slow, voice sweet as caramel, “may I pass my face to your balls.” He lowers his face, planting soft kisses on Harry’s taint till his mouth cups one of Harry’s balls and Harry _wails_. Louis sucks gently, closing his eyes as if he was savouring something sweet. “Please, master,” he continues once he lets go of it. “Please look into my eyes.”

And Harry does; Harry, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, looks at him from under his bent, pliant, body, directly into Louis’s eyes, glancing for a second at his chin, slick with spit, then at his next line. “Please master,” he reads, voice low, eyes on the pages, “order me down on the floor. Please, master, tell me to lick your thick—”

Louis remembers the next verses, knows them by heart at this point, _please_ _master_ _put_ _your_ _rough hands on_ _my_ _bald_ _hairy skull please_ _master press_ _my_ _mouth_ _to_ _your_ _prick-heart please_ _master press_ _my_ _face_ _into_ _your_ _belly,_ _pull_ _me_ _slowly strong_ _thumbed_ _till_ _your dumb hardness_ _fills_ _my_ _throat_ _to_ _the_ _base_ , but it’s different, hearing them read in Harry’s deep, guttural voice, some words blending together, a confused flow of pleads and broken sobs, others punctuated by shaky moans; some not even words, just moans and animalistic sounds mixing with the slick, pornographic sound of Louis’ tongue fucking in and out of Harry, spit dribbling over his chin, over Harry’s thighs.

He—Harry—hasn’t seen Louis’s mouth engulf two of his fingers, suck gently, swirling his tongue around their tips, cheeks hollowing, cheekbones prominent, too busy keeping his eyes glued to the poem; hence why he’s cut off by the feeling of Louis prodding them against his entrance, and it looks as if air has been punched out of his lungs, the way he just stops breathing, moving — and he only manages to croak out “Please— _pleasepleaseplease_ —oh, _fuck_ ,” with a high-pitched whimper when Louis enters him, fingers alongside his tongue.

He comes with a shout when, white stripes falling on his chest and on the sheets, the moment Louis grazes his tweet down his taint, forearms giving out and face falling right on the book.

When he does not move for about five seconds, Louis lets go of his hips and leans back, caressing Harry’s back. It’s not, like, he’s worried, but Harry’s still got his face planted on a book and his arse wet and up in the air, and it’s not like his rimming skills are so good he could have broken him, but — “Haz, are you —”

“Fuck me,” is the first thing Harry says, turning his head just about enough to to speak. He’s still panting, swallowing loudly, sweat covering his back. “Fuck me. Please just fuck me.”

“Eloquent,” Louis smirks, but reaches out to grab the discarded lube on the other side of the bed. “I don’t remember the next line being like this.”

Harry shakes his head fervently, gripping the pillow tight enough that his knuckles turn white. “I’m gonna recite the entire Divine Comedy, even Paradise Lost, if you want, I don’t fucking care,” he says, cheek flat on the - crumpled - pages. His hair and his eyes are wild, and he’s flushed down to his chest. Louis thinks he's probably fucked English out of him, because his next words are the same as before. “Just, please. Fuck me.”

Louis doesn’t waste another second, slicking three of his fingers up to the base and entering Harry one more time; it’s easy, his hole slightly loose from his tongue, still a good kind of tight: just enough not to hurt Harry, but for him to feel like Harry’s gripping him in a vice that sucks him in, deeper and deeper — he prods his finger upwards, knows when he’s found Harry’s prostate because he whimpers, letting out a long, throaty moan that makes Louis’s insides twist pleasantly.

What he doesn’t expect is Harry going, “Please master make me say Please Master Fuck me now, please, Master grease my balls and hairmouth with sweet vaselines—”; he stills for a moment, fingers buried to the knuckles in the younger boy, and Harry makes a frustrated sound before he eagerly rocks back, fucking himself into Louis’s hand. “Please master stroke your shaft with white creams—”

It’s not even where he had stopped, Louis knows, he’s picked up again from the wrong line, but he can’t bring himself give a fuck, because this is probably the closest he’s gotten to see God, and the divine revelation is Harry reading out poems, pleading master, master, master, with Louis three fingers deep in him.

He doesn’t even bother to wipe his fingers on the sheets, too busy lining himself up against Harry’s hole and thrusting in, rocking his hips slowly, back and forth, one inch at time, punctuated by Harry’s voice. “Please master pull out and slowly roll into the bottom, please master lunge it again, and withdraw to the tip,” —and Harry, wonderful, beautiful boy, he reaches behind with one hand, his right forearm now holding his entire weight up; he has to make grabby hands just once before Louis understands, and: “Please please master fuck me again with your self, please fuck me, please, Master drive it down till it hurts me—the softness— _the softness_ ,” Louis grabs Harry’s hand with his, holds tight, intertwines their fingers.

The next lines are a mess; Harry skips some words, blends letters together, an erotic slur accompanying Louis’s hips, their bodies rocking together like galleons. When Louis change the angle of his thrusts and slams home, directly into Harry’s prostate, he cries out and clenches his eyes shut for a second, gripping Louis’s hand till it hurts. It must hurt for Harry too, just a bit, when Louis gives a more forceful thrust and Harry’s knees give out, so that Louis literally falls down on him, deep inside of him. It must hurt like it always does with them, in a good way, in a way that makes it worth it. Louis tells him, _I_ _love_ _you,_ _I_ _love_ _you_ _so_ _much_ , coherent thoughts and verses long gone, as he comes deep inside of him, Harry coming again from the rough friction of his cock against the sheets.

_Please master_ _call_ _me_ _a dog, an ass_ _beast,_ _a wet_ _asshole,_ _& _ _fuck_ _me_ _more_ _violent,_ _my_ _eyes_ _hid with_ _your palms round_ _my_ _skull,_ _& plunge down _ _in_ _a brutal hard_ _lash thru soft_ _drip-fish,_ _& _ _throb thru_ _five_ _seconds_ _to_ _spurt out your semen heat over & over, bamming _ _it in_ _while I_ _cry_ _out your name I do_ _love_ _you,_ _please_ _Master._

February, 2015.

They’re set to land in in about forty minutes; Louis has just checked with one of the stewardess, and he’s now leaning back against his seat, stretching his arms. his fringe is soft, falling over his eyes every so often; soft is his grey hoodie, soft is his gaze.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Louis repeats, crossing his arms. “‘Bleugh’ is a perfectly fine word.”

“It is not,” Harry protests. He bats Louis’s hand away when he tries to place his letter down for the third time, scowling. “‘Bleugh’ is the sound Niall made the last time you tried to cook a casserole, but definitely not a word.”

Louis makes a nagging gesture at him. “It’s an onomatopoeia, ya know.” The haughty look he’s pulling almost hilarious on his face. “You uncultured hipster.”

Harry frowns, and for a moment he’s so surprised that he lets Louis place his letter down. His grin

is so big he might be splitting his face in half, the bastard. “Now, where did you learn what an onomatopoeia is, of all words?”

“You’re not the only reader here, you know,” Louis huffs, rolling his eyes. Harry looks at him pointedly, eyebrows shooting, and Louis relents, hands up in surrender: “Alright, smart-ass. Crossword. Here you have it.”

“So  that  is  why you  stayed  in  the  toilet  for a good  thirty-five minutes  yesterday,”  Harry  states flatly.  “I was about to wet myself ,  you  little  shit.”

Louis smiles wide at him, all teeth, unapologetic. Oh, he is so not letting him win with that, honest. He scrunches up his forehead in concentration, trying to come up with something witty, and he’s literally ready to figuratively knock Louis out with ‘voyeurism’ when he notices that Louis’s gaze is focused on him — and that there is a new, unexpected look of uncertainty on his face. “What?”

“No books today?” Louis asks.

“Nope,” Harry replies, stressing on the ‘p’ sound. “No books today. Been trying to finish the Purgatory, but it takes more concentration and relax than we will have in, like. Forever, possibly.”

Louis chuckles quietly, counters “You are,” — but he’s cautious, and he’s shifting uncomfortably on his seat, a tension in his movements that wasn’t here a few moments ago.

Harry bumps him with his knee, gaining a soft smile in return. “Hey, Lou,” he says softly, “what’s the matter?”

“Remember last November?” When Harry gives away his confusion, Louis specifies, licking his lips to take some time, “The day — the day my tweet to Selby was sent out.”

Harry doesn’t like to remember that day, nor the days that followed; he doesn’t like to remember the bitterness and the feeling of guilt biting at his stomach. But of course he does, and so does Louis, and they both remember with their minds and their hearts and their gut; they remember in a way that, he knows, makes both of their stomachs hurt and chests clench and throats tighten enough to make it difficult to swallow. “I do, yeah.”

“You were telling me about Dante’s Inferno, but I stopped you.” It’s not a question. The next

sentence, however, is: “Would you like to tell me now?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, can’t bring himself to speak for a handful of long seconds. He’s aware that it’s difficult for Louis to apologise, in part because he’d had a right to be furious, at that time, a right to snap at him like a barking dog, in part, because it’s a character flaw of his; however, Louis holding his hand tight now, thumb tracing circles over the soft skin of his inner wrist, is an apology enough, if you ask him.

“It’s the fifth Canto, Dante enters the second circle of Hell, where are those condemned for their lust,” he explains softly. “Their souls are bound to be blown back and forth by the cold winds a violent storm until the end of time. By retaliation, just as their souls were swayed the winds of passion and lust in life, so they will in Hell.” Louis nods, giving Harry permission to go on. “Here, Dante meets two people—two souls—Paolo and Francesca. They were forbidden lovers in life. He was her husband’s brother—he caught them and killed them both. And it’s remarkable— Dante takes pity on them, and makes Francesca, a _woman_ , speak on their behalf.”

Louis tilts his head slightly, features soft. I love you so much, Harry thinks. “What does she say?”

Harry’s reread the passage enough times to have it memorized, by now. “Love, that so soon takes hold in the gentle breast, took this lad with the lovely body they tore from me; the way of it leaves me still distrest.” He takes a deep breath as Louis shifts closer, hold on his hand tightening, a reassuring presence now, _always_. “Love, that to no loved heart remits love's score, took me with such great joy of him, that see! It holds me yet and never shall leave me more." His voice is even softer, a bit melancholic, as he adds: "It means—it means that someone who is loved so deeply cannot help but love in return. Even if they're literally going through hell.”

Hadn’t there been the scrabble between them, Harry is sure Louis would have crawled on his lap by now. But he just brings his hand to his lips, kisses it, peering up at him from under his eyelashes. “That’s beautiful, Harry,” he mutters against his skin. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Harry finds it difficult to swallow. “I haven’t finished,” he continues, a thick, invisible weight inside his throat, and Louis stills in silence. “Paolo and Francesca are the only lovers that manage to hold hands in the middle of the storm, preventing the other from being blown away. They are in Hell, and they forever will, but they are the only ones that manage to win the storm.”

And if Louis’s eyes are wet like his are, he doesn’t let it show. He exhales quietly over his hand, and peppers it with kisses, muttering, “I love you.”

They step off the plane twenty minutes later. It’s the 5th of February, 2015, and Harry hasn’t read a single page.


End file.
